


I Think We're Alone Now

by king_finn



Series: What A Wonderful World [8]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Captivity, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Isolation, Rescue Missions, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26901514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_finn/pseuds/king_finn
Summary: It’s one of the only things he knows for sure, at this point. He’s Geralt of Rivia, he’s a Witcher, he loves Jaskier, Yen, and his family, and he’s losing his mind.Geralt gets captured by Nilfgaard, but when they realize Ciri isn't with him, they leave him in a cell to rot.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: What A Wonderful World [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951405
Comments: 9
Kudos: 164
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	I Think We're Alone Now

**Author's Note:**

> Day 8 of Whumptober! Can't believe we're already a week in, oh my god. Today's prompt is: isolation!
> 
> Title from I Think We're Alone Now by Tommy James and The Shondells.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

There is no window in his cell.

Geralt’s alright with being captured, bound, and left to rot on his own, with the occasional clump of mouldy bread and cup of water shoved through the small window in the door. He’s not so alright with the dimeritium handcuffs, slowly leeching away his strength – but it’s nothing he’s never had to endure before. And he’s even fine with the fact that he hasn’t seen or spoken with anyone ever since they put him in here.

But he _hates_ that there’s no window in his cell; the constant darkness, only broken by the one ever-burning – probably magic – torch in the corner of the room, is making him lose all sense of time.

He doesn’t know whether it’s the middle of the night, or morning, or afternoon. He doesn’t know how many days it’s been since he was thrown in here – it could be months, at this point. He doesn’t _know._

Maybe his family is worried that he didn’t make it to Kaer Morhen for the winter – if it’s even winter, already. Maybe they’re out there looking for him. Maybe they’ve already given up on him, maybe it’s been so long since he went missing that they presume him to be dead. He hopes not. It’s starting to get boring in here.

Although, he figures maybe it’s not a good idea for his family to try to come rescue him; there’s obviously a mage wandering these halls. If he hadn’t known that yet from the everlasting torch, he surely would’ve known by the way that every time he goes to sleep, the chamber pot is emptied by the time he wakes, as well as his clothes cleaned, and his face freshly shaven.

He’s just glad he didn’t find princess Cirilla. At least, he assumes that’s why the Nilfgaardians took him. The soldiers bearing the black sun that had surrounded him, all those weeks or months ago, had called to another group to go find ‘the girl’ – and since his Child Surprise is the only girl Geralt really knows, the conclusion was easily drawn.

He doesn’t really know what had happened after that, though he assumes it had something to do with the mage. He’d woken up in this cell, hands shackled in front of him with dimeritium, and no one else in sight. And he’d stayed there, on his own, abandoned and left to rot. The Nilfgaardians probably have no use for him for now, since he wasn’t with the princess, and they’re obviously not prepared to just let him go, but killing him would be a potentially bad move – who knows what use Geralt might have for them in the future. Especially if that mage can find a way into his mind.

Though, there are certain moments where he feels like the mage has already found a way into his mind.

When he sees the shadows the flames cast move in the corner of his eye, and for a split second he thinks it might be Jaskier or Yennefer or one of his brothers there to save him. When he swears he hears whispers coming from the corners of the room and from the ceiling. When he needs a few moments to remember what Lambert looks like or how Jaskier smells or what it feels like to brush Roach after a long day on the road. When he looks at his own hands and barely registers them – feels as though they’re not his and he’s hovering an inch or two above his body. When he finds himself wondering if he even exists at all, or if he’s died somewhere along the way and is now just a ghost, reliving the same day over and over again for all of eternity.

Those moments when he feels his sanity slipping through his fingers, when he has to press his forehead against the cold stones or scratch his arms to ground himself, to feel _something_ that reminds him that he’s _alive_ and he’s _real_ and he’s a _Godsdamned Witcher, he shouldn’t be losing his mind like this._

But he is.

It’s one of the only things he knows for sure, at this point. He’s Geralt of Rivia, he’s a Witcher, he loves Jaskier, Yen, and his family, and he’s losing his mind.

Time stretches on, thick and sour like curdled milk, every second emptier than the last. There are no sounds, no signs of life, no indication that he isn’t the only person left on the Continent. Or, well, there _was_ no sound. He cocks his head; the whispers are starting up again. They’re coming from the ceiling, once more.

He looks up. Dark stones and flickering shadows. He swears he can see faces in the uneven surface.

He bends forward, touching his forehead to the stone. “Keep it together,” he whispers to himself. “Don’t lose your mind.”

Someone touches his shoulder, and he jerks up, frantically looking around. There’s no one there. He snaps his head around again when he hears scratching at the door, metal on wood, and goosebumps raise along his arms.

There is a monster out there, something trying to get in, to kill him when he’s at his most vulnerable. Maybe it’s a demon, maybe it’s all those people he failed to save over the years, maybe it’s those he wronged and are now here for justice, for his blood. Maybe it’s Renfri – here to return the favour. Maybe it’s Pavetta and Duny – because he couldn’t find their daughter in time. Maybe it’s Jaskier – for what he said on the mountain.

The scratching grows louder, and his heartbeat thrums in his ears, mixing with the noises coming from the door and the whispers still falling from the ceiling.

The scratching is getting more and more frantic, and he braces himself for the inevitable, for the monster to break through the door and tear his throat out. But then-

“Fuck, I can’t see anything with this bloody helmet.”

He blanches, blinking at the door, wondering if he really heard what he thinks he just heard. Probably not. The whispers aren’t real, so why would this be? But then the scratching stops, and he hears a small, triumphant “ha!”, before the sound of a key turning in a lock breaches the silence in the room.

The door swings open.

A Nilfgaardian soldier steps into the cell clumsily, wobbling from foot to foot awkwardly as he nearly trips and falls in his effort to half-close the door – as if he’s not used to wearing armour at all. Geralt frowns at him, not sure if he’s real or not, and if he is, why he’s in this cell with a dangerous Witcher, all on his own.

The soldier smells like chamomile and lavender, and it hits Geralt like a sack of bricks, his mind reeling from how familiar it is.

The soldier closes the door completely, and Geralt hears running footsteps go past the cell. They both wait in silence for the noises to disappear into the distance, and before long, the unknown soldier turns back around, facing Geralt.

“Right. I think we’re alone, now,” the soldier says with Jaskier’s voice.

He gasps, mind reeling and stumbling over itself with relief and joy and apprehension when the man removes his helmet and- _yes, it is him, it is Jaskier._

“What…?” he manages to ask, voice raw from disuse.

Jaskier drops on his knees in front of him, the Nilfgaardian armour clattering loudly as he fishes into his pocket for a ring of keys, trying to jam one of them into the cuffs around Geralt’s hands. “Hi, yes, we’re here to save you. Time for you to go home, Geralt.”

He gapes at Jaskier, drinking in the familiar sight and smell and sound of him. He opens his mouth a few times, a hundred different things running through his mind, not sure what to say first. He eventually settles on: “I’m sorry. For the mountain.”

Jaskier looks up at him through his lashes as he tries different keys on the handcuffs. “Yes, yes, you can apologize for that later. Let’s get you out of here first, shall we?” He groans in frustration as yet another key doesn’t work. “Bloody things, would it have killed them to label these?” he mutters under his breath, and it’s so familiar and so _Jaskier,_ Geralt nearly cries with it.

“You said ‘we’.”

Jaskier frowns, then nods absentmindedly. “Yes, Yen’s here, taking care of that mage that was wandering about, trying to stop us from finding you. Oh, and Ciri’s here.” He does look at Geralt, then. “I found her, right outside Brokilon. I- I couldn’t just _leave_ her there, so I went to find Yen, and she took us to Kaer Morhen. Your brothers are here, too, by the way.” He focuses on the keys again, biting his bottom lip as he concentrates.

Finally, the lock clicks and the cuffs fall off Geralt’s wrists. He rubs them experimentally, flinching a bit when he touches the raw, red skin, irritated by all that time spent under those cuffs.

“Thank you,” he says softly. For the first time in days, he feels one with his body again, grounded in time and reality, and all because of Jaskier. “For everything.”

Jaskier smiles at him. “Don’t thank me just yet, we still have to get out of here. But…” He leans forward, pulling Geralt into a tight hug. “I’m glad you’re alive, Geralt. When I heard you’d disappeared, I was so scared that… that…”

Geralt nods, feeling salty tears on his neck and shoulder, and he rubs soothing circles into Jaskier’s back, revelling in the feeling of someone holding him, being close to him for the first time in a long while. “I know. I know, Jask.”

Jaskier pulls back, and Geralt’s trembling hand instinctively comes up to wipe the tears off his cheek. Jaskier leans into the touch for a moment or so, familiar blue eyes content and relieved, before he pulls back and stands up, offering Geralt his hand. “Right, let’s get going, then.”

Geralt takes it and stands on shaky legs, taking a moment to gather his strength before he follows Jaskier out of the cell.

And when Geralt steps into the hallway, he can see through an open window that it’s the middle of the afternoon.

The ceiling stops whispering.

**Author's Note:**

> Also I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan


End file.
